


Quiet But Accomplished

by tendervittles



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Implied/Referenced Incest, Incest, M/M, Masturbation, Parent/Child Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-02
Updated: 2014-10-02
Packaged: 2018-02-19 15:27:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2393426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tendervittles/pseuds/tendervittles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Squiring for Lord Redfort in the Vale, Domeric Bolton misses his father but remains a dutiful son.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Quiet But Accomplished

**Author's Note:**

  * For [crookedneighbour](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crookedneighbour/gifts).



> Written for the Flea Bottom Fic Exchange on Tumblr.
> 
> Enjoy! <3

Sometimes a queer loneliness overtook him and Domeric Bolton sought the bittersweet solitude of his quarters. No one questioned his abrupt departure; Domeric’s quiet ruminations were accepted, even cherished, by the Redfort children and the other youths of the Vale.

He had rode well that morning; everyone had said so, and a few onlookers shouted encouragements and laudations as he withdrew from the yard. Domeric acknowledged the compliments with wave and nod, but didn’t pause in his retreat.

He felt no triumph, only an oppressive discomfort he could never quite parse out. It wouldn’t do to let anyone know, and so Domeric retreated to his chamber. When these bleak moods took him, he was grateful for the privacy.

Mychel had grown up sharing chambers with his brothers.

Sometimes Domeric would imagine he could talk to Mychel about these feelings (just to better parse them out; to gain an outsider’s perspective). Mychel and his family have been very kind, but they are not of the North and so Domeric could never confide in them, not even in Mychel. Even he would not understand.  
Domeric hardly understands it himself. The feelings are vague and fleeting; they drift into his mind like a rising tide, only to retreat as soon as he casts his mind’s eye upon them.

He reclines on his bed, his head propped up on the plush down pillows, wearing only a tunic and his breeches. The sweat from his exertion in the yard has dried on his skin. The room is somewhat chilly, but Domeric feels too morose to rise and start a fire in the hearth.

Mychel is sleeping with that Mya Stone. Good hips, but not a worthy match for Mychel. The girl is tall and burly, and baseborn. Domeric had tried to counsel Mychel against it, but Mychel refused to hear any of his cautions. We love each other, Domeric, Mychel insisted.

He wonders what that feels like.

He imagines his father watching him ride in the yard. He imagines his father… Stern, solemn, his pale eyes and slim hands with their hidden strength…

Domeric rubs and pinches at his hips and shivers. The effect is the opposite of distracting and now there is a needy twitching in his stomach and thighs. He really should start that fire.

He imagines what Mychel would say if they were able to speak about Domeric’s… urges.

No one else would ever have to know.

Father would never have to know.

But Roose Bolton isn’t like other fathers and Domeric is half-convinced that the Lord of the Dreadfort would be able to tell what he had done.

The thought prompts Domeric to imagine standing before his father, undressed and ready. They always disrobe before leeching together, but in his mind this time is different. His father appraises Domeric’s body with a sharp and critical eye.

Domeric’s hands push under his breeches and smallclothes.  
In his mind, he doesn’t wilt under his father’s gaze. He is pure, and young, and strong, and so he can meet Roose Bolton’s eyes, gray and cold.

His fingers wrap around his length and Domeric gasps when he feels how hard he’s become. His eyes squeeze shut.

There are no witnesses.

In his mind, Domeric reclines on his father’s pillows, in his father’s bed, in his father’s house.

"I’ve saved myself… for you, my lord."

He can’t remember slicking his hand, but he is wet down there and his hand is sliding up and down with ease. Domeric tightens his grip and slips back into his fantasy.

His father’s eyes linger between his heir’s legs. Domeric wishes there was a way to give his father his maidenhead, but men are not made that way. A pity.

"I need it, Father. Please?"

The feelings and need is overwhelming and Domeric hurriedly shucks off his pants so he is bare for the waist down. His hand settles once again between his legs, and he pumps faster, tightening his grip.

He imagines turning over onto his stomach, legs spread, looking back over his shoulder to meet his father’s eye, offering himself. His father has earned this and in his imagination, Domeric tells him so.

"You have taught me the ways of our House and the North, for that I thank you, Father."

Sometimes his mental voice sounds proper and formal, as it is when he usually speaks with Father. But then the veil slips and there is only Domeric’s need, his longing and desperate desire to serve his father in other ways, those best not spoken of aloud.

His hand is still moving, faster and faster, until his hips buck wildly and Domeric moans with abandon. There is nobody to hear, he tells himself before once again giving in to the sensation. His toes curl into the mattress and he cries out.

“Father…!”

“Ahhh… Ahhhh….”

All at once, Domeric halts his ministrations, though he is about to spill. He knows he can’t, could never. What sort of son would he be, to come to his father already soiled? It wouldn’t do and his father would never have it.

He still aches for release.

Back home, he always had his father and his leeches there to calm the urges and still his passions.

But Domeric is nothing if not a dutiful son. He struggles back into his breeches, ignoring the throbbing in his groin. He’ll send the servants for some bathwater. Cold.

He rises and walks over to the window. It’s a dreary day in the Vale. The sky is overcast, threatening rain, and mist rises from the ground.

He looks to the north and imagines the spires of home rises above the trees to tear at the sky. Home… and there, his father.


End file.
